Jerusalem Bus Ride

Standing in line for the 74, I untangle my ear buds in the palm of my hand. The cold night air cuts deep as I dodge the elbows and bags of encroaching passengers. Walking to the back of the bus, I pass rows of Israelis. Religious women have their hair wrapped in patterned cloths that extend a foot above their head. Bundled up old men with plastic bags at their feet stare at themselves out the windows. The bus pulls away from the curb and speeds through Jerusalem, encased in orange lamplight. Suddenly, a melody lifts above the engine. Faces freeze. Someone is singing in Arabic.

            Everyone starts shifting in their seats. A man wearing knotted tzit-tzit cranes his neck to stare. The voice rises louder and louder, twisting in the air until my ears ring. A soldier stands up. I tilt my head slightly over my shoulder and see a girl wearing a leather jacket with long black hair and red lipstick. She grins widely, perched on the edge of her seat. I look back at the passengers in front of me. A man yells at her to be quiet from the front of the bus.

            “Enta Omri! Oum Kalthoum! A classic!” she yells back. “What do you want?” She snaps at the crowd in Hebrew. Everyone tries to ignore her. Then the girl begins clapping and singing in Hebrew. Whispers spread. She scrunches up her face and mimics an American accent. A few people chuckle. The Haredi boy sitting to my right giggles and leans onto his arm to hide his smile.

I look back at the girl and smile too. She stops and speaks to me in Hebrew, but soon begins again in English:

            “What’s your name?”

            “Catie.”

            “Kitty? That’s my name,” she laughs loudly. “Kitty, Catie, Kitty, Catie,” she points back and forth between us. At the next stop, she swings into the aisle. She starts singing in Arabic once more, this time a little quieter. The doors open. She steps off. I put my ear buds back in and look out at the cityscape. The drone of the engine rises and I pull out my ear buds. 

Valley of the Kings

            I cross the threshold into the cool limestone burial shaft. A mustachioed Egyptian guard wearing a long grey robe eyes me as I pass. Light fills the first part of the passageway and dissolves into aquamarine shadows. I walk along the board ramp that slopes down to the sarcophagus of Seti II. Reliefs of human figures are carved into the chalky walls, many of which are rimmed coral and cobalt with residual paint. I can see ahead that the ramp drops into a steeper second slope that leads to the entrance of the tomb.  From afar, the entrance’s doorway glows apricot. For a moment, I see movement. Hypnotized, I walk slowly towards the coffin. My body is soaked with calm. The coolness spreads to my neck, arms, and cheeks, and suddenly I am six years old resting my face on my grandma’s marble table.

            Above the entrance are images of the Mehen snake coiled into a hundred figure eights. Its tail turns into a rope that is then pulled from Osiris’ mouth by strong young men. Time reverses and death rejuvenates. I slide my fingertips into the grooves of the pharaoh’s chiseled face. The Egyptian guard appears at my side. He tilts his flashlight to show me a mirror underneath the lid. Together we read the reflected glyphs. And then I realize I can’t stay here forever. Hesitantly, I walk back towards the sunlight.  

Remember Jerusalem

         “Exile is when your mind is off one place, you are talking about some place else, and your body is here,” my Hebrew teacher says as she grips the steering wheel.  We speed down the desert highway, passing through lamplight puddles and rock shadows. Suddenly she breaks hard to pick up a hitchhiker with peyos and glasses. He silently slips into the backseat and together we drive up the winding hill to the tomb of the tzadik, the prophet Shmuel Hanagid.

         The building that houses the tomb is surrounded by a patchwork of partially excavated mikvahs and altars.  The archeological site was once converted into a mosque and from time to time, Muslims still try to come and pray there. Behind the crumbling labyrinth, stretches a valley of luminous Arab cities. We walk along the edge and the night wind lifts our hair. A few dogs that have been sleeping in the ancient rooms rouse themselves and trot over.

            The tomb itself is cloaked in embroidered cloth covered with plastic. My Hebrew teacher walks over and drapes herself over it, pressing her forehead to the tomb. Her prayers come out in short gasps of breath. I pray for five minutes and then go out to wait. In walks a family of three. An old woman wearing an auburn wig and bandage around her leg sits down across from me while her daughter, a young lady wearing a long denim skirt and Reeboks, takes her baby inside to pray. Soon the old woman tries to speak to me in Hebrew, but I tell her,

            “Ani Medaberet Ivreet Kisat.” I speak little Hebrew.

            “At Yehudit?” You Jewish?

            “Ken, Ken.” Yes.

            “Baruch HaShem” she says in a raspy voice and pushes her fingers into the air to praise God. When my Hebrew teacher finally emerges, I peek inside one more time. The baby’s face is gently pressed against the tomb and giggling. The mother turns to look at me. She pats her son’s back and supports his legs. Grinning, the baby hugs the tomb.

            Driving back home, my Hebrew teacher and I discuss many things. Closed doors inspire confidence. I begin to realize that if I leave this car, nothing will ever be clear again. Everything will escape out that tiny crack. The birds spiraling around the Kotel, guns slung on hips, shimmies to doumbeks, the wine on Shabbat, the smiles that push your eyes out of the way, the friends, the prayers, the soft touch of his skin, the emotion of freedom, the hope of a happy life,

the knowing who you are,

the night air.

Click.